Making It Count
by Spikesgirl58
Summary: Almost losing a partner forces both men to think about their future. Slash suggested. Rated T for a bad word. Sequel to Counting Blessing


It was close today. Too close. I almost died today. I'm still not entirely sure why I didn't. I turned the corner and there he was - gun at the ready. He aimed, knowing I was trapped. Unarmed and caught like a deer in headlights, I could only wait for the inevitable outcome. A shot rang out and I convulsed for a second before realizing I hadn't been the one shot. The THRUSH dropped to his knees, his head a mass of blood and gray matter, and that's when I saw my partner, disheveled, bruised, and never before looking so wonderful. He shouldered the rifle he used, gave me a devilish grin and attitude. "So, Napoleon, am I correct in assuming you are here to rescue me?"

Yes, that had been my main purpose for infiltrating the satrap to begin with, that and the need to complete our mission. Waverly's orders had been explicit – we were expendable, the world's safety wasn't. Find the weapon and neutralize it or die trying. And yet, for some reason, the world didn't seem to matter as much to me as did the safety of one certain blond. When I learned he'd been captured, I knew in my heart what the next step was. Rescue him and let the world take care of itself.

He stands at the window now, staring out into the night, half a bottle of vodka in his gut and God knows what going through his mind. Whatever demons he's fighting, they're his alone. He doesn't offer to share and I don't bother to ask. Between us, we killed probably a dozen men, maybe more today. Whether or not it was in the pursuit of world safety or the necessity of good triumphing over evil, it didn't matter. There are a dozen men in the ground tonight, technically speaking, from our hands. A dozen men suddenly ceased to be because of us and it doesn't matter to me, because one man is safe.

I looked Death in the face today and saw myself looking back, cold and hard and uncaring. Is that what I've become? I'd like to think not. I'd like to think that life still holds a sweetness that I can, and do, savor and yet the thought of doing it without my partner… well, that's a thought for another day. For now, he is safe, we are safe.

He glances back at me and frowns, that crease between his eyes furrowing as he studies me. "Are you all right, Napoleon?"

He's been beaten, fed a cocktail of God know what kind of drugs, succeeded in nearly blowing himself and much of the known world to smithereens and he wants to know if I'm okay. I wish he'd spend as much time worrying about himself as he does me. It seems like everyone and everything takes precedence in his life except himself. His lack of self interest scares me, but I never let him know it. Nor can I let him know the affection… no, love, that I keep equally hidden. To let him know would be to welcome his wrath, his hatred, or worse, his pity. For the sake of our friendship, I must hide my love for him from him.

"I'm fine, why do you ask?" I plaster as much of a devil-may-care grin on my lips as possible.

"You look… morose, I suppose works as well as anything."

"Just thinking."

"I wondered what that grinding sound was," he says with a grin. He comes and squats before me, studying my face. "And should I offer you money for your thoughts?"

"Not worth it." He's so close now I can feel his breath against my cheek and I can't stop myself. It's too late as I lean forward and touch my lips to his. They're soft, not as full as a woman's, but just as pleasing. To my relief, he doesn't jerk back, if anything he leans forward, more into the kiss and my heart sighs.

"What was that for?" he asks a heart beat later, his mouth no more than a fraction from mine.

"For saving me," I murmur, resting my forehead against his.

"And that's all it was worth to you?" Then my fingers are tangled in his hair, his body is pressing against mine and then I know there was no need to worry or fear this, just the need. That's enough. For now, that's more than enough.

Oh, God…

*****

There are moments in your life when you wonder just how you got to where you are. Of what paths you had to take and how many twists and turns you had to make just to end up at this certain point at this certain time.

This morning, I was trying to remember my name and trying not to choke on my own vomit. This evening, I'm lying in bed with Napoleon, a tangle of arms and legs, with the joint effort of our lovemaking slowly drying between us.

Today, I watched for a split second as my enemy tried to take the most important person in the world from me and I, without a moment's regret or hesitation, put a bullet through the back of his head. I knew instinctively Napoleon was there looking for me and it made me feel good to think that someone cared enough to even think about looking, much less actually doing it. Before him, I was pretty much just a nameless face, one of many, but with him, I am noticed, and it amuses me to think, even envied a bit.

He'd been so quiet since we escaped from the fortress, watching it come down with a satisfying display of pyroclastic fury. I know he is beginning to rehash the day's events, as he is wont to do, and that he is starting to wonder why and how I got free, subdued my guards, got a weapon, and found him. That last part was the easiest bit. Most of the time I only have to close my eyes and permit myself to feel and I can find him.

"Are you all right, Napoleon?" I feel duty bound to ask him, in case he does want to talk. He's much more in touch with his feelings than I am. Mine I prefer to stuff away, drowning them with whatever alcohol I can get my hands on, and go from there. I kill because it's necessary, but not without regret. Even the men I killed today had families, are, or were loved, at some point in their lives, and I regret that my actions might cause pain to innocents. But this is war, no question, and in war, people, often good people, die. But not Napoleon, at least not today.

"I'm fine, why do you ask?"

"You look…morose I suppose works as well as anything." It's not the word I want and you'd think with all the languages I speak, it would be easier to find the right word to pick. But I look at him and my brain starts to devolve and something a bit baser takes over.

And I find myself, just for a moment, wishing he was something else, anything other than an American with their strict rules of personal space and rigid prescripts of decorum. Otherwise, I could touch him and not risk violating his sensibilities. I'm as close now as I dare to be, touching, but not quite, giving him the space his society says is his alone.

"Just thinking."

"I wondered what that grinding sound was." If all else fails, go for levity. He grins and I know the comment has done what I'd hoped. "And should I offer you money for your thoughts?"

"Not worth it." Then abruptly he kisses me. Should I be shocked or offended? I think not, but thinking is frequently not my strong suit when it comes to Napoleon. Feeling is, and I lean into the kiss, letting him know it's perfectly acceptable.

"What was that for?" I keep my mouth close, just in case he feels the needs for a repeat performance.

"For saving me," he murmurs, resting his forehead against mine.

"And that's all it was worth to you?" Then his fingers are tangled in my hair, his body is pressing against mine and I take the advantage. It might be the only one I'm offered and I will go as far as he permits me to go.

Which, in retrospect, and with a rapidly cooling wet spot on the sheets, was the full distance. It isn't often that my partner surprises me anymore, but this was most definitely a surprise - a wonderful, delightful surprise. And possibly now a regret on his part?

"You are incredible." He runs his fingers over my face, my nose, my mouth and I close my eyes so that I can concentrate just on that feeling. If I were given to belief in a superior being, I would pray to him now, thanking him for being kind and benevolent, if only for a little while. "I'm usually a bit more eloquent in bed, but I just want you to know, Illya, this means something to me. This wasn't just a mindless fuck or blowing off steam. I don't know why or how or even for how long, but I love you, Illya." and he looks so scared, so worried that I can't help but smile, and hold him and want him and love him…

Oh, God…


End file.
